In Which a Trouty Mouth Gets All Up on Santana
by Violet-Amy
Summary: Sick of the mouth jokes, Sam makes Santana a bet. If he can get her off using just his mouth, she has to stop making fun of it. From a GKM prompt.


Santana scowls at Artie and Brittany, making out in his wheelchair while the four of them are supposed to be working on a song. Even though "Trouty Mouth" was freaking genius. Seriously, she doesn't know what Mr. Schue's problem is.

Well, screw this "songwriting" assignment anyway. It's bad enough wasting her night two nerds and a rhyming dictionary when everyone knows they're going to end up singing some lame-ass song Rachel Berry wrote about the amazing talent of Rachel Berry. But if she's supposed to do it while trying not to puke at the sight of Cripples McGee with his tongue down Brittany's throat? No. She needs a distraction.

She climbs into Sam's lap. "Since everyone seems to be taking a break," she says seductively, "how about we gets our mack on too?"

Sam frowns at her. "I don't think so."

"Um, excuse me?" Her sharp tone makes Brittany and Artie pull away from each other and look at her. "I owns these froggy lips, and I wants up on them."

Sam pushes her off his lap and slides to the other side of the couch. "First of all, no, you don't. Second of all, I'm tired of it."

"Tired of what, guppy face?"

"The constant comments about my mouth. That song you sang in front of the whole glee club today—I'm sorry, but that was the last straw."

"Oh, stop being such a girl about it. It's true that your ginormous lips make the rest of your face look comically undersized, but if I didn't like them do you really think I'd want them on mine?"

"If you really liked my mouth you wouldn't make fun of it twenty-four-seven," Sam counters.

"That's probably true, Santana," Brittany agrees. "You only sort of like it now, but I bet if you let him get you off with it—"

"Brittany!" Artie says, aghast.

"What?" Brittany asks, shrugging. "Don't you like my mouth better ever since I started—" She can't finish her sentence because Artie chooses that exact moment to kiss her. But whatever, she likes Artie's mouth too—more so ever since she taught him how to eat her out how she likes.

"Yeah. Well." Santana leans over to the far end of the couch and pats Sam's shoulder patronizingly. "My boy doesn't have those kinds of skills. He's a little on the innocent side. So far the best use he's learned to put that gaping maw to is opening pickle jars."

"Screw you, Santana."

"You _definitely_ don't have those skills."

"Maybe everyone needs to cool down a little," Artie says.

"You wanna bet?" Sam asks, completely ignoring Artie.

"Bet that I'm not gonna let you screw me? That would hardly be fair."

"Bet that I can't get you off with my mouth."

Santana considers...for a split second. "Still too easy," she declares. "I'd feel bad taking your money."

"Who said anything about money?" Sam says. He scoots back toward her side of the couch, puts his hand on her knee. "If I win, you have to stop with the mouth jokes. For good."

Okay, Santana can admit it. She's intrigued. "And when you lose?"

"What do you want, _if_ I lose? Which I'm not gonna."

Damn, that's a tough one. What _does_ Santana want...that Trouty Mouth has to offer? "You have to blow wheelchair boy over here."

"Leave me out of this!" Artie insists.

Santana rolls her eyes and says, "Fine. You can blow..."

"He can blow me," Brittany volunteers. "I can put on my strap-on."

Santana thinks for a second. "The pink one? Or the huge purple one?"

"The pink one is more like a real cock, don't you think?"

"Yeah." Santana nods, it's settled. "When you lose you have to blow Brittany's pink dildo like it was a real cock."

"Uh...for how long?" Not that Sam thinks he's going to lose or anything, but on the other hand he'd like to get all the details clarified _first_. And it's not like there's a natural ending point to a dildo blowjob.

Brittany and Santana confer in murmurs. "Ten minutes," Santana says when they've reached their answer. "And I get to watch, naturally."

Shit. He figured Santana would want to watch, but ten minutes seems like a long time. A real guy would probably come in way less than that. Of course, the fact that Brittany's fake dick _can't_ come in his mouth is a huge advantage over a real one, so he agrees.

"And you can _only_ use your mouth," Santana clarifies. "No hands or...or anything else."

"Okay, except there might be some incidental contact with other parts of my face. Especially if you're moving around."

"What, you think you're gonna be so good that I won't be able to control myself? You think my hips will start moving on their own and I'll start humping your face?"

"Probably."

Santana's pretty sure Sam's answer is just bravado. But she's not entirely sure. "Whatever," she says. "Fine. Incidental facial contact won't disqualify you."

They shake on it. "Where and when?" Sam asks.

"Right here, right now," Santana says. "Duh."

"Okay!" Artie says. "Brittany, I really think it's time for you and me to leave."

Brittany looks at him, perplexed. "But it's my house."

"Well, then maybe _they_ should leave."

"But they're doing it right here, right now. Besides, where else would they go? Both their families are home." It's why they're at Brittany's house: she was the only one with an empty house that night, and they thought they'd need the quiet for their songwriting. "And also besides, they need witnesses."

"Witnesses?" Artie echoes weakly.

"Yeah. You can't do a bet without witnesses. One of them could cheat."

"Well...I really don't feel comfortable..." Not that Artie can honestly say he has _no_ interest in watching Santana get eaten out. If she does come, that'll be super hot to watch. And even if she doesn't, he's bound to get _some_ glimpses of nudity, even with Sam's head in the way.

He's managed to get used to the idea of being a witness when Brittany says, "That's all right. They really only need one witness. Anyway we should go upstairs just in case my sister comes home or something. You'll be okay down here, right?"

"Yeah, I guess..." Brittany has helped Artie upstairs to her room plenty of times, and with Sam there it would be even easier. But he already said he didn't feel comfortable, and besides, they're not really waiting for him to answer. Artie sighs and tries to get into Angry Birds on his phone, hoping it'll help him ignore what's about to be going on right above him.

Brittany starts directing the other two as soon as they're up in her room. "All right, Santana, pants off. Do you wanna kiss for a while first or get right to it?"

"Right to it," Santana says, unzipping her jeans. "Trouty had his chance at my horizontal smile and he wasn't interested."

Sam watches as she nonchalantly strips from the waist down and drops her pants and underwear on the floor. He's had his hands on his girlfriend's ass before, but mostly over clothes or at least panties. And it's been when they've been kissing, so he hasn't actually seen her naked. Glimpses of her tits a few times, and they're totally amazing, but this is, uh...wow.

She's turned away from him, and her ass is just so...so round and totally squeezable-looking, and he really wishes he weren't almost a hundred percent sure that the no-hands rule is already in effect. And then she turns toward him, and he gets his first look at her cute little snatch, covered by just a small patch of close-trimmed black hair. Probably at least partly because of the over-the-knee socks Santana's wearing, Sam is reminded of the cartoons in his grandfather's old _Playboys_ that he used to sneak off to look at—the black-and-white drawings of that woman on the jokes pages with the long boots and long gloves and the little back triangle of pubic hair. He always _really_ liked her.

Brittany directs Santana into a chair she judges to be about the right height and turns to rifle through a dresser drawer. When she sees the red-and-blue striped tie that Brittany pulls out, Santana has a coughing fit. She really didn't expect Britt to let anyone _else _see that, and she hopes to god she hasn't been using it with Artie.

"What's with the tie?" Sam asks nervously.

"Santana stole it from Kurt's boyfriend."

Sam thought it looked familiar! He wonders why Santana would steal a tie and give it to Brittany, but mostly he wonders what she's planning to do with it now. Though he thinks he has some idea.

Sure enough, Brittany stands behind him and says, "To make sure you can't cheat and use your hands."

Santana's about to object. She stole that tie for her and Britt. Plus, if Sam does cheat by using his hands, he'll be disqualified and she will automatically win. But before she can tell Brittany to put the thing away, she catches the look of total humiliation on Sam's face—and that's just from the _idea_ of having his hands tied. So, yeah, she's in favor of the tie now.

"I swear I won't use my hands," Sam says, his face a dark pink.

"Obviously," Brittany says. "My knots are super tight. Hands behind your back."

Brittany's knot _is _super tight. Sam never had any intention of cheating, but he couldn't now if he wanted to. He's almost tempted to call it off—having to fake suck off a dildo couldn't be much worse than having to drop clumsily to his knees, hands tied behind his back, in front of Santana.

But that smug look on her face. No fucking way is he letting her win.

Brittany arranges Santana in the chair, helps her slouch so her ass is right on the edge. She spreads her legs wide, and Sam is suddenly face-to-face, so to speak, with a real cunt for the first time in his life. Why, exactly, was he thinking just a second ago he might not want to do this? He has no idea.

Her scent is subtle but totally enticing. It's from that liquid, he thinks, the moisture he can actually see glistening inside her pink folds. Does that mean...? It must mean she's turned on already too! Probably from seeing him tied up and on his knees, but, still, it's a victory: he's already made Santana wet, and he hasn't even touched her yet.

"Can you hurry it up, lips? I've got other things to do." She doesn't, actually, but she's starting to feel a little weird about the way Sam is just staring at her lady bits.

"There's no time limit," Sam points out. "No one ever stipulated a time limit." He looks up to Brittany for confirmation.

"He's right," Brittany rules. She's not just he witness but the judge too, apparently. "Sorry, San. But the contest goes until Sam quits or you come."

Damn it. Next time Santana is definitely going to remember to stipulate a time limit.

Sam chuckles.

"But you have to be doing stuff," Brittany adds. "You can't just...hover."

This time Santana chuckles. But the joke's on her, because Sam doesn't even want to just hover, he totally wants to be doing stuff. And so while she's still getting her chuckle on, he extends his tongue and licks from the top of her slit to the bottom.

That gets her to shut up.

The problem is, Sam's momentarily stunned by what he just did and doesn't know how to follow it up. But he's determined not to hover, not to give Santana any excuse for any of her snark, and so he repeats the exact same action.

And then again.

The fourth time, he changes things up by going bottom to top. And that direction seems to make his tongue go in deeper. And he likes deeper. She tastes even better, deeper. And he's not sure because he has a thigh partially covering each ear, but he thinks he hears her gasp at deeper. Just a little, but he's pretty sure she's not _trying_ to encourage him, so it must be authentic.

Santana wishes she hadn't waited so long to let that trouty mouth between her legs. Not that he's _that_ great or anything, obviously. It's clearly his first time. It's just...she didn't realize how hard up she's been. Her body is responding in ways it absolutely shouldn't be to Sam's totally inexpert tongue poking around. If she'd been letting him do this on the regular, she wouldn't be so desperate for it now, when she needs to be stoic.

Of course, if she'd been letting him do it on the regular, he'd be even better at it by now.

And that prospect appeals to her a lot more than she'd like to admit, if the escape of another soft gasp from her mouth is any indication.

Damn it, he just pressed his face in harder. And his tongue is, like, way up in her snatch. Like, circling. And sliding around really easily, because against her better judgment her body is providing lots of lubrication for him...not that her body even needs to help him out because he has that _mouth_, Jesus Christ. His mouth is plenty wet on its own. And warm, fuck.

Sam really likes pussy, he decides. It's the best thing he's ever tasted, for one thing. And he loves how wet and slick it is and how he can actually feel the blood pulsing right under the skin. And fuck, if his _tongue_ feels this good inside, think of how good his dick would feel.

He tries not to think about his dick, but of course that's impossible. It's straining against his jeans, and if only he had a hand free...He could rub against the chair maybe...But, no. He wants to keep concentrating on Santana. He almost hopes he doesn't get her off, not right away at any rate, because he doesn't want to have to stop yet.

He finds himself pushing his tongue in and out of her hole, pumping, thrusting...basically fucking her with his tongue. Which is awesome, except it makes it harder not to think about his cock. And thinking about his cock just makes it ache. So he's going to stop fucking into her, go back to just licking for a while...but then she clenches around his tongue and it's the hottest thing ever. Her pussy walls actually squeeze his tongue so tight and it's just...He moans into her, and then he hears her moan too. And he keeps – slamming – his tongue – into – her cunt until he realizes that his hips are moving in time with his tongue thrusts, and they never actually stipulated that Sam nutting in his jeans would be a cause for disqualification, but he feels very strongly that it would be bad and is to be avoided.

He forces himself to still his tongue and take a deep breath. But that just means breathing in her scent, and he can smell how aroused she is. Like, he doesn't even know how he knows that's what that smell means, he just does.

Santana takes a slow, deep breath at the same time, like she's trying to compose herself just like he is, and it makes Sam want to grab her and hold her down and just fuck her—with his cock, not his tongue—until she screams his name and he fills her pussy with his come.

But that can't happen, he reminds himself. He's tied up, for one thing.

The trick, he realizes, is to find something that drives her crazy but lets him remain comparatively sane.

The clitoris.

Unlike the g-spot, which may or may not be a real thing (he's not totally clear on this question), the clitoris really exists. He's seen some. In pictures and movies, but still, it means he should be able to find Santana's. Even though he's too close to really see, and if he moves back then her lips will cover everything up again, so he's going to have to find it by touch. With his mouth.

Santana's hoping that the lull in the action means that Sam is about to give up. She doesn't think it's actually likely, though, so she tries to use the break to focus on collecting herself. Really, she doesn't know what's wrong with her anyway, getting all hot and bothered by this...this guy who may technically be her boyfriend, but nevertheless is kind of a dork.

She breathes deeply and wills herself to relax. Yes, he has a nice mouth, fine. But really his tongue is no different than...than a washcloth. She hardly ever comes just from a washcloth touching her pussy, no matter how warm, how strong yet soft, how urgently it fucks her...Shit.

_Get it together_, she tells herself. _He hasn't even touched your_... Oh. Shit. Shit, where's he going with that tongue? He read her thoughts, damn it!

Sam drags his tongue through her folds. He goes slowly, methodically, trying to construct a map in his mind. Santana's trying not to give anything away through her reactions, he can tell, but he can detect the involuntary variations in her breathing, so he knows when he's doing something she likes. Or rather, he knows when he's doing something she _especially_ likes. To Sam's great delight, he can tell that she actually likes everything he's doing.

He knows he's found the little button he's looking for when her thighs tighten around his head and he hears her mutter, "Fuck." It doesn't feel like much to him—a little flap not much different from anything else down here—but the more he toys with it the more he can tell it's not the same at all for her.

Okay, Santana knows she's not holding it together that well, and it's totally embarrassing. She shouldn't have said _fuck_, for one thing, because now he knows to stop probing all over the place and just park his mouth right where it is. (Not that she wasn't enjoying the probing too, and, god, what is wrong with her?)

And he starts out by flicking at her clit with just the tip of his tongue. Like, hey, this is it, isn't it? I found it, didn't I? You like this, don't you? Flick, flick, flick. And she tries not to answer, but _yes_, that's it; _yes_, he found it; and _yes_, she likes it, okay? That's, like, what it's for—of course she fucking likes it. But still, she only breathes a tiny bit harder, she thinks, at the flicking. If he's going to take her down, she's at least not going to make it easy for him.

Not that he's making it easy for her either. After doing the flicking thing just long enough to have her all needy and on edge, he's started massaging her sensitive little nub, really pressing into it with long, _deep_ strokes of his tongue. The kind that make her all but helpless to roll her hips to maximize the contact and the pleasure.

They move together, Sam's mouth and Santana's hips, slowly and sensually. She actually starts to let herself get into it. Because: 1. It's fucking good, and 2. She can feel the pressure building inside her, but it's building slowly enough that she thinks that _just maybe_ she can go with it and come without him realizing she did. And letting herself think that lets her keep rolling her hips with him, even stroke his hair and maybe mutter, "Yeah, like that"—though that last thing is a total accident.

But he stops massaging—right before she feels like she's actually going to manage her silent, invisible orgasm—and she whines in disappointment. And then he's sucking her clit, and this is when she knows she's lost and doesn't even care. He sucks gently at first, and she _so_ doesn't care anymore about losing that she orders him, "Harder!"

And Sam—the bastard!—_doesn't_ suck harder. If anything he dials it back a notch. He's not going to be content just making her come, he wants to make her beg for it. "Fuck you," she says, as she starts humping his face.

And then the son of a bitch actually pulls his head back, so he's barely even in contact with her anymore, and says, "That's not very nice."

"_I'm_ not very nice!?" she says in disbelief. But it gets to her—much quicker than it should—the fact that he's not moving and barely touching her anymore and all she can feel is his breath on her clit and she needs so much more than that, and she spits out, "Fine, I'm sorry. Just go back to what you were doing." And though it almost kills her, she adds, "Please."

She actually feels his lips form a smile—or a smirk, more likely—and he says, "You really need it bad, huh?" But before she can object he has those soft, pillowy lips back on her clit, and soon he's sucking again, too gently still, but at least this time with slowly but steadily increasing pressure, and objecting seems pointless when she _does _need it bad.

"Harder, Sam. Please harder," she asks, not even caring if it sounds like begging. Because she's so close and coming is seriously all she cares about now. And he does suck harder, thank god, and she just needs a tiny final push.

She opens her eyes, and there's Brittany staring at her, eyes wide, lips parted, cheeks flushed. And she realizes how she must look to Britt, her slutty legs spread wide for a tied-up virgin on his knees, _her_ begging _him_ to make her come...and that's it, that's totally the push she needs.

"Fucking...fucking..." She grips Sam's head and holds it tight. "_Fuck!_" She's totally humping his face now and if he lets go of her clit she's going to fucking kill him. He doesn't, thank god, he just keeps sucking and lets his head get yanked around this way and that as she thrashes around him. If she's going down—which obviously she is—she may as well go down hard, so she doesn't make the slightest attempt to hold back. Her orgasm is like its own force, almost like its own being, and she lets it work its way through her, jerking her around, pulling screams from her...

Brittany's jaw goes a little slacker watching her best friend come unraveled. She's seen it before, but she can never get over how beautiful Santana looks when she completely lets go like this.

Downstairs, Artie looks up uncomfortably from his game of Angry Birds. It's definitely not Brittany's orgasm noises—there's a lot more swearing, for one thing. He feels a wave of relief before he reminds himself that he wasn't actually worried that Brittany was going to be cheating with him right there in the house. Obviously his relief is that...that Sam won the bet and so everyone will have to endure a lot fewer big-mouth jokes during glee practice. And now he needs to find some music to listen to—loudly.

Sam is practically in heaven. Well his neck kinda hurts and it's a little hard to breathe, but who cares? He _loves_ that he's making Santana fall apart like this, even though she didn't think he could, even though she tried not to let him. Who has no game now, Santana? Huh? Sorry, can't hear you over your screams of pleasure.

He doesn't want to stop, even when she goes quiet and limp. When she lets her hand fall away from his head and her thighs slacken around his ears he slides his tongue back down to her hole. It's so wet inside, way wetter than before even, and he wants to slurp all the wetness up. He wants, god, he wants to fuck her so bad. He plunges his tongue in hard, in and out, in and out, and it's now wholly unsatisfying but it's literally the most he can do in his current position.

Santana pulls back. "That's enough, Trouty. You already won."

"That's enough, _who_?"

"Sam," she corrects herself. "You already won, Sam."

"I need to fuck you, Santana. Untie me and let me put my dick in you, come on. Don't tell me you don't want it too."

She wouldn't mind at all, actually. She's a little wiped from her first orgasm, but she's pretty sure there's another one not too far below the surface. The thing is, she doesn't _need_ it. "Why in hell would I let you do that?"

"Because..." Sam looks up at her pleadingly from under his bangs. "Come on, that was amazing!"

Santana shrugs. "It was all right." Before he can protest that it sounded a lot better than _all right_ for her, she adds, "Besides, the key word there is _was_...at least as far as I'm concerned. So again...why would I let you fuck me?"

"Because..." Sam sputters. "Because...because you _have to_."

"You'll probably come again," Brittany adds. Santana quickly shoots her a glance telling her to shut up.

Santana leans forward and pushes the hair off his red, sweaty face. She can see the need in his eyes. "Tell you what," she says carefully, "let's call off this whole me-not-making-fun-of-your-mouth thing, and I'll let you."

Sam's eyes light up. "Seriously? That's it? Yeah, whatever. Keep making fun of my mouth as much as you want. Just _please _untie me so I can fuck you."

"Untie you?" Santana chuckles. "No, no, no. I like you just the way you are." She trails a finger down his chest, all the way down to a small wet spot on the front of his jeans, which are about to pop open from the strain. "And it doesn't seem like you mind it too much either."

He _does_ mind it, the being tied up part, but that doesn't stop him from bucking against her hand. He should have acted like the mouth jokes were a bigger deal to him, he thinks. And they are a big deal to him—just not right now. Right now he's not in the best state of mind for negotiating. But he tries. "No way," he says. "Forget it. I can take care of my needs myself."

"I'm sure you can," Santana agrees. And then she opens his fly and slides her hand down his underwear, and, _fuck_,her hand feels so much better than his own. And she pushes his briefs down past his hips and his cock springs free, so achy, so needy, and she actually twists herself into some highly uncomfortable looking position in the chair so that her head is by his crotch, and she closes her mouth around it, and fuck, fuck, fuck! She only keeps it there for a second before releasing it with a pop and adding, "But I feel way better."

Sam never should have even tried to bluff, he realizes now, and he immediately caves. "Fine, leave my hands tied, whatever, just...just _please_ let me put my cock in your pussy."

Santana smirks. "Help me get him up, Britt." The girls help him to his feet and debate between themselves where they should put him. Brittany's afraid laying him on his back with his hands tied like they are could injure him, and Santana's not willing to untie him even for a few seconds, even just to retie him to the headboard. So they settle on Brittany's desk chair—it has a straight back and no arms, so they're able to just hook his tied-up arms over the back. But first, of course, they strip him from the waist down, so that he and Santana match (except that his socks are shorter).

Santana doesn't climb on his lap right away. She wants to have some fun with him first, and she feels she's earned it. She stands behind him and leans over to talk into his ear, and also so he'll be able to feel her tits on the back of his neck. "How bad do you want it?" she asks in a husky voice.

"You know how bad I want it, Santana, come on."

"I _do_ see how bad you want it," she agrees. She moves around to his side and squats next to him. His cock is so hard and swollen, it's almost purple and it looks like it's ready to pop any second. She strokes it super lightly with barely more than the tips of her fingernails.

"God, yeah, Santana, keep doing that," Sam says, trying to rub against her hand. He doesn't even care how he comes so much anymore, as long as he gets to. Besides... "If you make me come with your hand the no-jokes agreement is back in place."

"What!?" Santana jerks her hand away abruptly. "No way!"

They both look to Brittany, who considers for a moment before declaring, "That was the deal, that he gets to fuck you. Not just that you get him off."

"Fine." Santana chuckles to herself. That _was_ the deal: that he could fuck her. There was nothing in there at all about him being allowed to get off. So maybe she'll just walk away after a few seconds of fucking. Ha.

She climbs on his lap and lowers herself slowly onto his dick. He's bigger than she realized, but he still slides in pretty easily. He opened her up pretty well, after all, plus her muscles are relaxed after her orgasm. Not to mention that she's super wet still and/or again (sometimes she can't tell the difference).

Pretty much as soon as she's worked his cock all the way up in her twat she abandons the idea of walking away before he's done—before they're both done. Because fuck if he doesn't actually feel really good inside her, and why would she walk away from another imminent orgasm? Sam's the one who's tied up—he's the one who this should be humiliating for.

Except it isn't so much. His shoulders are kind of sore, but he doesn't even care about that. As soon as he feels that warm, wet pussy slip around his cock, he forgets about everything else in the world. Her walls squeeze around him so, so perfectly. The only thing that could possibly be better would be if he could thrust into her harder, but the angle and the lack of the use of his arms make thrusting difficult. But it's fine, because she clearly knows how to ride a cock, and she works herself up and down it, works it in and out of herself, and the squeezing and the friction...everything is so fucking good.

He could come right away, he _wants_ to come right away, and it's kind of killing him not to. The only reason he's holding off—well, besides not wanting to give Santana something else to make fun of him for later—is that he hopes she'll come again too. Next time Santana's saying some shit about him polishing a baby's head or whatever, he wants her to remember that this is the guy who she couldn't help but come for, twice.

But, damn it, making her come again is probably just a pipe dream. He's so close, and every move she's making is like, ingeniously designed to make him shoot his load as soon as possible. But it's fine, it's more than fine, he's literally never felt better.

At the last minute he realizes he wants something more than just their junk touching when he comes, and he manages to catch her mouth with his.

And his mouth, Jesus Christ, Santana really does actually love his mouth, more then ever now that she can taste herself on it. His whole face smells like her cunt, in fact, and it's shiny with her juices. She lets him kiss her, and when he sucks her lower lip into his mouth she starts to come again without warning. She moans against his mouth and grinds down hard on his cock.

And her body is mostly rigid, except for her pussy walls. Those walls constrict and release and constrict and release like they're fucking milking him. They suck all the come right out of him, and he feels himself spraying her insides, painting her walls with his come. It's by far the most satisfying release he's ever felt.

Santana keeps coming long after he's finished, and he's exhausted and oversensitive by the time she slumps against his chest, breathing heavily. And his aching shoulders really are bothering him now.

"Brittany? Could you untie me please?"

Brittany shakes her head—not as in no, but as in waking herself from a trance. "That was so hot," she says as she loosens the Dalton tie. She massages his arms and shoulders for a minute, knowing from experience how sore he probably is. "Santana." She pats the girl's shoulder. "Get off of Sam so he can stand up."

"Sleepy," Santana protests, not lifting her head. She's not quite ready to shake off her post-orgasm contentedness, especially since she's not entirely sure who just won. And if it wasn't her, she'd rather not realize it right away.

Sam tries to pick her up, but his arms are shaky and Brittany has to help him. Together they lay her down on the bed. Santana's eyes are closed, and Sam asks Brittany, "Is she really asleep?"

Brittany shrugs. She's pretty sure Santana's faking, but she's also pretty sure that if Santana's faking it's because she wants Sam to think she's really asleep. That's why people fake things.

Sam gets dressed, trying to straighten out everything that just happened in his head. He made Santana come with his mouth, so he won the bet. But he doesn't get the prize, because he gave it up in exchange for getting to fuck her. But...he got to fuck her...and he made her come _again_, even though there was no prize for the second time, so...yeah! A pretty great night!

Quietly, so as not to wake Santana, he tells Brittany, "Well, tell her I'll see her tomorrow. And maybe I'll even help her come up with some new mouth-related nicknames." And he kisses Santana on the forehead and leaves.

"Bye, Trouty," she calls after him softly.


End file.
